Twenty Two Caliber Bullets
by poestheblackcat
Summary: Birthday challenge to myself to write one story about guns/gunshot wounds/angst/etc for every birthday, updated daily. Now up: "Pearl: - Her name is Pearl. She's perfect. This is sooo not the kind of fic you'd think from the summary.
1. The Play's the Thing

Welcome to my annual birthday challenge. Every year, I do a self-imposed gauntlet of writing and posting one fic every day until my birthday, one story for each year. I began this tradition for my twentieth birthday by writing a twenty-story anthology, "Twenty Questions." This was themed around Sam asking Dean questions, from the time they were kids through to when they grew up. "Twenty-One Bottles of Beer on the Wall" was a twenty-first birthday gift to myself, centered around alcohol (obviously).

This year's theme (twenty-second b-day!) is guns. Enter lots and lots of man-angst, hurt!Dean, hurt!Sam, hurt/comfort, a little horror, a bit of cuteness, and a smidge of humor (because I can't seem to write _anything_ without making it a tiny bit twisted/funny). Basically, it's just me indulging myself and writing whatever the heck I want.

So here goes! Fire your engines…

_**Bang!**_

(That was the starting gun, in case you didn't get it…*is lame*)

Enjoy!

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><p>Summary: Guns aren't allowed in Hell. Title from <em>Hamlet.<em> Graphic descriptions of torture and implied suicidal tendencies. Ya know, the usual. Season 4.

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><p><strong>The Play's the Thing<strong>

Guns aren't allowed in Hell. They're too quick, kill too easily.

Knives are better. Knives slice. Knives carve. Knives can dig out the slippery-squishy ping-pong ball that is your eye and leave the lid (which, incidentally, has the thinnest outer layer of skin on the entire body, except for on the female clitoris) intact.

Knives allow you to play with your food, metaphorically speaking.

Not to say that a gun doesn't instill fear in the guy at the other end of it. The click of the gears as it's cocked, the bug-eyed stare up the barrel of it, the big _**BANG!**_ as it goes off - they're scary all right, but guns really just don't let you flaunt the type of finesse that comes from wielding a blade.

In the hand of someone who really knows how to use it, a knife can be a truly terrifying sight. (Oh yes, Hell likes its torturing to have a _personal_ touch.)

Guns kill. The cheesy slogan's got a completely new meaning in Hell. Guns are mercy, guns are compassion, guns are freedom from the agony of a pair of tweezers gently, slowly, carefully, squeezing your spleen until it pops with a splash of green bile.

In Hell, your body grows back, piece by piece. A toe here, a liver there (if Dean had had the attention or energy to do so, he would have compared the situation to Prometheus', but he hadn't, and anyway, that shit's too geeky for his level of coolness anyway) - it all grows back, slowly, painfully, until it's all there again, the human body in all its imperfect magnificence.

It hurts, but not nearly as much as the actual torture does, nowhere near as much. That's why every soul on the rack begs for mercy, begs for the bullet to the head. It hurts less. It's faster, oh, so much quicker than the slow shredding of skin, skinning, peeling, _digging_.

_**BAM!**_ and it's over. The luxury of the regrowth is something every soul looks forward to. They pray their body will take its time rebuilding itself, but always, always, the process goes by too quickly. Much, much too quickly.

Nevertheless, the break from the immeasurable agony is like Heaven, their own little patch of Heaven right there in Hell.

Dean wishes it could be like that again. He wishes he could have something like it to look forward to again. But he doesn't.

All he has is a brother who is never in his bed when Dean wakes up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, shaking, voice raw with screaming from the nightmares that plague him even when he's awake.

All he has is his gun. His gun. He wants to feel _that_ again, the longing for the terrible mercy of the bullet.

He'll never have that feeling again. He knows it, like a drug addict knows he'll never again have a high as great as his first. Up here, _alive_ again, the torture, in his dreams and waking, it never stops, never slows down, never eases.

Dean puts the gun against his head and weeps.

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><p>AN: Each review is a trick candle on my birthday cake. If you want to see me wheeze trying to blow them out, click the little button!<p> 


	2. Hey Man, Nice Shot

Summary: The first time Dad lets Dean shoot a gun, he's six years old. Wee!Dean and John. Reference to 2.06 "No Exit." Title from the song by Filter (which played in the episode "Skin").

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><p><strong>Hey Man, Nice Shot<strong>

The first time Dad lets Dean shoot a gun, he's six years old. It's heavier than it looks, but he treats it with the respect it deserves; Dad's told him like, a _million_ times how important it is to be careful when he holds a gun.

Guns are dangerous, but they can also help Dean take care of Sammy, just like Dad uses his guns to protect the both of them.

Dean's _excitedscaredcuriousnervous_ when Dad hands him the gun. It's the Colt 1911 with the mother-of-pearl grip. It's worn smooth with use and time, but it feels new in his small hands. The gun is hard to hold because it's so heavy, but he makes sure Dad doesn't see any hesitation.

Dean has to learn. So he can protect Sammy. Sammy needs protection, from the monsters, from the bad guys, from boo-boos, from _everything_ because he's so little.

Dad lines up a row of aluminum cans. He says, "Hold it like this, Dean," and shows him how to stand, where to put his arms, how high to hold the gun.

Then he steps back, lets Dean show him how to do it right.

Dean closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, opens his eyes, and squeezes his finger.

It's like magic - feels that good, that bad, that strange.

The unexpected force of the shot makes him stumble back a couple of steps, but he steadies himself, and lowers his arms.

"Safety, Dean," comes his father's voice behind him.

He looks down, flicks the safety catch on, and turns to his dad. He's engulfed in a huge hug, lifted up in strong arms like he used to be before _,_ and Dad's stubble rubs up against his own smooth face. He thinks the rough cheeks might be a little wet, but that's stupid - Dad doesn't cry. Not anymore, at least not when he's not drunk.

Dean doesn't see why he'd be sad anyway. He can take care of Sammy now.

There's a beer can missing from the row of miscellaneous beer and soda cans - he'd shot a hole right in the middle of the blue ribbon on the Pabst can.

"I'm so proud of you, Dean," Dad says, and Dean beams into the leather jacked-clad shoulder.

Dean's proud of himself, too. He's good at protecting Sammy.


	3. First Shot

Summary: John decides it's time, time for Dean to learn how to handle a gun. Companion piece to Chapter 2: "Hey Man, Nice Shot."

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><p><strong>First Shot<strong>

He's been putting this off for months now. But it's time, time for Dean to learn how to handle a gun. He needs to be able to protect Sammy when John can't be there to do it. And John isn't there a lot. He knows this. But he's searching for their mother's killer, and it won't take long, he'll find the sonofabitch soon enough, and then they'll settle down again, and Dean won't ever have to pick up a gun again.

But until then, he has to be able to protect the two of them when they're all alone in the motel rooms that are the only homes that their sorry bastard of a father can afford. (But it won't be for long. He'll get a proper job when it's all over. He will.)

Dean's six. That's young to be learning how to shoot a gun, how to kill a man. John knows this. He knows what a weapon in the hands of even a child can do, he'd seen it back in 'Nam. That war is long over, but there's a new one, one that he _has_ to fight, and damn it, Dean's gonna be able to protect Sammy in case something ever happens to John, or if he can't get back in time.

So he takes his firstborn son out to an open field, sets up a line of beer cans, and shows him how to hold a gun, how to aim, how to kill.

And damn, if he doesn't feel like a right bastard for killing that little bit of innocence in his son's soul.

But by God, the boy's a natural. He'll make a great hunter someday.

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><p>AN: I "Deeeeaaaaaaannnnnn!"-ed to myself as I wrote this and the chapter before this one. Anyone else feel the intense urge to just pick wee!Dean up and cuddle the heck out of him? No? I guess it must be that biological clock ticking, then. But...22's a little young for that, isn't it? Nah. It's probably just the reaction every hot-blooded female gets around that boyman/hot-hunk-of-hunkiness. Probably.


	4. Mama Put My Guns In The Ground

Summary: Mary sells the guns after her parents' death. She wants to start a new life, a life without ghosts and goblins and the creatures of the night. Pre-series, right after 3.04 "In The Beginning." Title from Bob Dylan's "Knocking on Heaven's Door."

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><p><strong>Mama Put My Guns In The Ground<strong>

Mary takes a handful of the crumbling black stuff from the urn and throws it into the wind. _Bye, Mama._ Another handful. _Bye, Daddy._ Another handful. _Goodbye, hunting._

She can feel John at her back, so strong, so tall, so innocent. She doesn't want his world and hers to mix, doesn't want it to touch him (although it already has, but she buries that thought with another handful of her parents' ashes). _Goodbye, goodbye, good riddance._

She misses her parents. Mama, Daddy - she'd loved them as much as any person loves their parents, maybe even more than some do, but they represented a life she hates with every fiber of her being. Daddy wouldn't let her stop hunting, and Mama had just wanted her to be prepared, and God, Mary just _hated_ hunting.

So _goodbye, goodbye, goodbye_.

She thinks about that strange hunter, Dean Van Halen, and his warning to her. She wonders if he's some kind of psychic, that he thinks something bad will happen to her in the future, but she shuts that thought down, too.

It doesn't exist, none of it does. It doesn't exist.

Maybe if she says it long enough, loud enough, it'll come true. Maybe, just maybe.

God, she wants it to.

She'd sold the guns first thing. And the knives and the other hunting equipment. But those guns. She'd grown up with a gun in her hand, could shoot better than she could ever hope to cook or clean or any of those wifely things she's gonna have to learn how to do on her own now. _Mama, what do I do?_

But that's going to change. Things are going to change.

No more guns. Not in the house that John's been talking about buying someday, nor in the apartment where they're going to live until they can save enough money to get the house. Mary intends to help with that, using the money she'd gotten from selling the weapons and what she'll get from selling her parents' house.

A hunter ought to live there - would probably pay top dollar to buy a house with so much protection built and carved and steeped into it. But she's not going to sell it to a hunter. No, she doesn't want anything to do with hunting, much less an actual hunter in her town.

She's going to forget about that life, and build her own with John, and maybe someday they'll have children of their own. She's going to have a family, and they're not going to grow up with weapons training instead of Little League. They're going to be as normal as apple pie.

She tosses another handful of her parents' ashes and finishes burying her past.

_Goodbye._


	5. I Can't Shoot Them Anymore

Summary: Dean tries to forget, but some things just can't be forgotten, not after the life he's lived. Post 5.22 "Swan Song." Companion piece to Chapter 4: "Mama Put My Guns In The Ground." Title is the next line in Bob Dylan's song, "Knocking on Heaven's Door."

Ooh, lookie here, another post-5.22 Dean angst fic. Surprise, surprise. You can't see me, but I'm rolling my eyes - not at the actual episode, but at my fixation on it. By my count, this fanfic is my sixth about that episode. There are a couple of references to Season 6 in general, too.

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><p><strong>I Can't Shoot Them Anymore<strong>

He puts it all away, just packs everything into the Impala (it's not that hard, considering he and Sa- his brother had lived in the car for most of their lives), closes the trunk lid, pulls a tarp over her, and forgets.

Tries to forget, anyway. And packs _almost_ everything away.

He stops living out of his duffel bag and gradually moves all his clothes into Lisa's closet. His toothbrush and razor find their places in her bathroom. He finds himself slowly acquiring and accumulating _stuff_. Just things he doesn't need, has never needed, but they're things that Lisa buys for him, things that his new friends (check their eyes, _Christo_) insist he gets, like golf clubs, power tools, "guy stuff."

He was plenty "guy" enough before, he thinks, without all this _shit_. But he smiles and fixes things around Lisa's house, goes golfing, meets people who seem too happy and _toothy_ to be real, all because he's supposed to, Lisa expects him to, people expect him to.

He tries to be normal - Sammy had told him to live the apple pie life, Mom had wanted her children to lead apple pie lives - he tries, and tries, and tries. He tries so hard, but at night, the nightmares come back, and he finds that he feels naked sleeping without protection, without holy water on hand, without his gun nearby.

Just one gun.

Lisa had frowned when she'd seen the weapon but she hadn't said anything. Maybe she'd thought that it would help him sleep through the night without waking up screaming, and if sleep came in the form of a gun-shaped security blanket, so be it. But she still frowned and worried about Ben getting his hands on it.

He does get better, stops having those dreams of his brother falling back into the dark abyss of Hell, taking Lucifer and Michael (and Adam, can't forget Adam) with him. The dreams stop, mostly. He still has bad nights, especially on anniversaries (birthdays, deathdays, _fire-pain-tears_), but he does get better. He keeps drapes one arm over the edge of the bed and keeps his hand near the gun, the holy water. Just in case.

Lisa takes him to meet her sister, her friends, invites them over for barbecues, helps him get a job, and he feels himself becoming normal, ordinary, plastic. It's strange, but he's always been good at adapting. He'd even adapted in Hell (_pain-knives-screaming-pain-Alastair_).

But the thought hits him that he doesn't want to become Mom, doesn't want to forget his past so much (if he even can) that he forgets about the evil lurking, always lurking in the dark, wanting to hurt his family, hurt Lisa and Ben.

So he takes the gun and he coaxes Lisa into learning how to hold it, how to aim it, how to shoot it. He takes her to a gun range, so she's more comfortable, instead of to an open field in the middle of nowhere like the one he'd learned to shoot a gun in, helps her aim at a paper outline instead of at a row of beer cans, and he makes her practice, practice until she gets good, until he's satisfied that she can protect Ben from the supernatural should it ever come knocking and take him like it had taken Mom.

And then he forgets, puts it away in the box at the back of his mind.

Until one day, the signs are there, much too clear for him to ignore, and he tries, but hunter in him can't ignore them.

He reaches for a gun he doesn't have and regrets trying to forget so hard. He doesn't want to become Mom.


	6. Bonus Xover: I Don't Like Guns

Summary: "I don't like guns," they all say. Dean's got a zombie apocalypse to fight, and that's what they tell him. _Supernatural/Dark Angel/Leverage/Angel_ crack-humor crossover.

This story is a multi-fandom crossover with my favorite shows. Pretty much everyone is ridiculously out of character (like how everyone's just standing around chatting, while the zombies outside howl and screech at them through the windows) but it's for the fun verbal sparrage. Total, complete crack.

I thought this collection could use a little humor, since it's been an angst-o-rama so far. Tonight's the _Leverage_ summer finale, so in celebration of that, here's the story. (By the way, pitchforks are that-a-way. In the direction _not_ the way I'm running.)

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><p><strong>I Don't Like Guns<strong>

"I don't like guns."

It's said in the same tone, by three very different people. One, the hottest one, in Dean's opinion, is a very pretty brunette, about twenty or so, with dark chocolate eyes, plump lips, and a figure like _whoa_. All in tight black leather. _Hot._

The second is a short, stocky, long-haired guy, the kind you might meet in any biker bar, and don't really want to get on the bad side of. Ya know, the kind whose mama you just don't insult because that would result in getting a beer bottle painfully shoved someplace you don't want it. If you're lucky. The kind of guy Dean would totally run his mouth off to, given the chance. 'Course, they'd sit down with a beer and shoot the shit after the requisite fight and nurse their bruises with a coupla shots of Jack. That kind of guy.

The third person doesn't look quite so badass as the other guy, but he has this huge retractable sword that looks _very _sharp. If that isn't a euphemism for something else, Dean doesn't know what the hell it is. He also looks a lot like the other long-haired guy. Except with shorter hair. Just a tad shorter. And he wears a lot of bling, for a dude. Not that Dean would knock wearing a badass necklace or a couple of manly leather thongs around his wrist, but man, this guy is loaded down. Charms all over, bracelets (one with friggin' _flowers_ on it, no less), and dude, full body mystic tattoos. There's protection, and then there's _protection_, and then there's overkill. And seriously, what's with that earring? Makes him look like some kind of cowboy pirate or something, paired with those boots.

"I don't like guns," they say, in tandem. Then they all make a show of glaring at each other, which would be funny if they weren't all surrounded by man-eating zombies, screeching and hollering at them through the thin walls of the rickety old house.

"Guys," Dean tries again. He's not that good with being the rational one. He wishes his brother was here. "Those are zombies out there. They like to eat brains. Maybe I'm not alone in this, but I'd like to keep my brains _inside_ my head. Uneaten." He holds the shotgun in his hand up. "This is a gun. Blowing off a zombie's head with a _gun _is the only way to kill one."

"Maybe we can feed you to them, then. They probably won't mind the taste of _deaf_ and _moron_. That'll give the rest of us time to run."

She's bluffing. Totally. Yeah, hip cocked to one side (_whewwww, _those mind-numbing curves), arms crossed, she's totally bluffing. She wouldn't…

Maybe she would.

Nah. He's too damn hot to throw to the wolves.

Probably.

Shorter-haired bling dude cuts in. "Blowing off their heads isn't quite the only way to get rid of them. Simple decapitation works, as well as complete dismemberment, and setting them on fire." Dean would have nodded in agreement - as douche-ish as he looks and sounds, this guy knows his stuff - except he (Bling, not Dean) chooses that moment to cop a feel from Little Miss Hottie and has the chutzpah to not even blink while he's doing it.

Tough Guy hasn't said much aside from the thing about not liking guns and making a few deep grunts and growls here and there, but the expression on his face is enough. _"Dude, really?"_

Dean really wishes he was Flashy Know-It-All Douchebag. Because that ass. Is a _really_ nice ass. Then Hot Chick reacts, after which he retracts that thought for fear she can read his mind.

She gets this shocked look on her face, then this _wall_ of pure fury descends. She grabs the guy's hand and squeezes, hard. The bones crunch.

He looks confused for a moment, just a moment, before the pain hits and he groans. "Gods! What did it do? Oh, no, tell me it didn't," he says, whimpering and clawing at the girl's tiny hand with his left hand. "Evil hand!" he cries. "I have an evil hand. It just does things. I can't control it!"

Like Dean's never heard that before…Actually, he hasn't, but it's a damn good excuse for groping and uh…his brain goes to his special dirty place, making him smirk. Just a little, because the dude looks like he's in serious pain here. No way a girl that tiny should be able to make a guy hurt so much. The thought crosses his mind that maybe she's not human. He makes a note to himself to throw a little holy water at her when she's not looking. Maybe nick her with a silver knife while he's at it, too.

Scary Dude steps in. "Look," he says to Hot Lips, "he's an asshole. But we're in the middle of a situation here. Now is not the time. We need all hands available, evil or not," he finishes, aiming a stern glare at his look-alike.

The girl scowls, and it's perfectly terrifying, it really is, the way her perfect face just screws up in a perfect way, and holy shit, he's falling in love with her. Falling in lust, Sam would say. Same difference.

Anyway.

The girl stops crushing the "evil hand" with her own bare hand and the man cradles it against his chest, glowering at everyone. "I can't help it," he mutters petulantly.

The moment Perky Ass steps away from him, Big Bear's there, with a handful of the shirt Charmer ('cause he's got all those protective charms and shit, not because of his nonexistent natural charm) is wearing, and he's growling in the guy's face in a way that is holy hot fudge, seriously, ridiculously scary. "Rule number seven. You keep your hands to yourself. Lady says no, she means no. Got it?"

Dean's got to hand it to McGropey - he doesn't squirm at all in Sir Chivalrous' grip (and Dean wants to know what the first six rules are, in case he's about to break one). "I told you," he bares his teeth at his double, "I. Have. An evil. Hand." And he raises said hand and wriggles the fingers.

Dean looks (just to see if he's really got an evil hand, or if he's just lying or something). Sure enough, there's a thin red scar all around the guy's wrist. Growly takes a glance at it, too, and sees what Dean sees. "Keep a leash on it, then," he grunts, and lets go with a pat on the guy's chest that's more like a shove.

Dean clears his throat. "Okay," he says, clapping his hands together with a smack, "now we've got that out of the way, how about we get to work?"

"No guns," growls the long-haired man. Alone, this time.

Dean's curious. He's got a feel for people who can use guns, and the little voice at the back of his head says that not only can this dude use one, he can wreak havoc on the mass of zombies outside in a matter of minutes, singlehandedly, with two guns and plenty of ammo. Actually, they all look like they can handle a gun, the girl probably a lot better than the other guy, but the point is, why diss a perfectly good weapon in a time of necessity?

He's curious, so he asks. And he wishes he hadn't.

"Got shot in the chest by someone I thought was a friend."

"My sister was killed in front of me when I was a kid, and a couple of years ago, I got shot in the chest by a younger version of myself."

"Shot people."

He screws his eyes up. He's got a headache. "You and you," he says, pointing at Urban Cowboy and Hot Tits, "How are you still alive?"

"Magic," says one.

"Science," says the other.

"Right," says Dean. He pulls a silver flask out. "Take a pull out of that, both of you. I need to check something." They look suspicious, so he takes a swig out of it first, to show them that it's not poison or anything, unless they're something supernatural, in which case, the combination of silver and holy water will burn like a bitch.

"Ladies first," Sleazebag says, taking a sarcastic leaf out of Rambo's book of chivalry.

She huffs and grabs the flask out of Dean's hand. "It's water," she says, looking unimpressed, and tosses it to Evil Hand.

He drinks. "Satisfied?" he says. "Silver and holy water don't harm humans." He passes it to his doppelganger. (And by the way, what's up with that? Shapeshifter…No, that's out, unless they've suddenly developed immunity to silver.)

So they all pass the test, and now he's got to get them to try and see things his way. Mainly that guns will save their lives.

"Beating their heads to a pulp works, too." Scary Spice flexes his arms and looks ready to start pummeling zombie skulls in.

"Fine," Dean says. "Have it your way." Stubborn sonsabitches, the whole lot of 'em.

"So how do you know about this zombie stuff? They don't exactly teach this in public school, do they?" asks Little Miss Sunshine.

"Been doing this my whole life," Dean answers, not seeing the point in lying, what with the, ya know, hungry hungry zombies out there. "A demon burned my mother to death on my baby brother's nursery's ceiling when I was a kid, and my dad raised the two of us to fight evil."

"Winchester," Evil Hand Dude says, squinting like he's remembering something he'd heard years ago, "Dean, if I remember correctly. Son of John and Mary, has a younger brother Sam, who's Special, and not in a mentally challenged way."

It's one thing for Dean to tell them details from his personal life, but another for some dick to already know it and spill it. "How the hell do you know that?" he demands, "Who are you?"

"Lindsey McDonald." The guy says with a slow, irritating smile. "How do I know about you? Oh, I used to be a lawyer for an evil law firm. Evil incorporated, literally. Which is how I know about demons and vampires and zombies. We represented the scum of the universes. Including the demon that killed your mother and your brother's girlfriend."

"And my dad."

"Oh yeah, him, too," Lindsey (and what the hell kind of wussy name is that?) shrugs, as if it's only a minor detail. "By the way," he says, as if he's suddenly thought of something amusing, "if you ever meet this guy's team," he jerks his head at his look-alike, "don't shoot the black guy. He ain't your guy."

"Huh?"

"You don't talk about my team. Ever." It's punctuated with a finger-jab into the lawyer's chest and a low, intimidating growl. "I will kill you."

"Yeah, yeah. Sure. It's a look-alike double thing. Everyone has one," Lindsey tells Dean, ignoring his own twin. "Don't believe me, ask her," he says, nodding at the girl.

"I know someone who looks like you," she confirms with a tight nod. She's keeping pretty cool for someone who's been cornered by a bunch of zombies in a rickety old house with three pretty dangerous guys (not that Dean's underestimating her own personal brand of danger), one of whom seems to know everything about them. Dean's impressed. "He's an idiot," she says then. Dean takes his admiration back. She's a bitch. No one as pretty as him could be an idiot.

"How about you? How do you know about this stuff?" Queen Bitch asks Know-It-All's burlier twin.

"He's Eliot Spencer," Lindsey says, "and he's not supposed to know about the supernatural, according to his file."

Eliot bares his teeth at him wolfishly. He doesn't like Lindsey knowing about everything about everything without his permission any more than Dean does. "I didn't. An hour ago, I got jumped by a man who was obviously dead, 'cept he was still movin' around. I knew he was dead because corpses have a very distinctive look and smell after they've been dead a while, say fifty-two hours, like this guy. I meant to knock him out, but I ended up knocking his entire head off. That stopped him, but there were more of the suckers right behind him, so I ran. I made it here, and saw that y'all're in the same boat I am."

Dean stares. "An hour ago. And you're okay with all of this?"

He shrugs. "Sure. I've seen some pretty weird shit in my life."

Dean nods disbelievingly at him. "Wow. You have got to be either the most well-adjusted person I've ever met, or a complete psychopath."

The guy just smiles this scary little smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

Dean suppresses a shudder and turns to the sexy brunette. "What's your name, sweetheart?"

Turns out, she has an equally terrifying grin. Shark-like, even. "Call me that again, and I'm gonna kick your ass to China. My name is Max."

Dean feels he should tell her something about herself that might make playing with others easier. "You know what, Maxie? You have a little problem with aggression. You might want to get some help for that. It's not like I groped your ass or anything, alright?"

Max is pretty much about to launch at him with a snarl, but decides to listen to his advice at the last moment. She settles for crossing her arms and glowering at Dean. She's totally checking him out.

"Great," he says. "So what we've got here is a girl with a guy's name, a guy with a girl's name," this elicits an indignant "Hey!" out of two people and a smirk out of a third, "a guy who didn't know about the supernatural a whole goddamned hour ago, and me. Awesome. And you all hate guns."

"I got a weapon." Lindsey says, magically making his dagger-sized knife grow into a full-length sword. Euphemism, right?

"I am a weapon." Eliot and Max glare at each other. They'd done the speak-in-sync thing again.

"I was genetically engineered in a test tube to be the smartest, fastest, most powerful, deadliest weapon the military had." Dean swears the brunette's got a "beat that, sucka" smirk on her face.

"X-5?" Eliot asks.

_The hell's an X-5?_ Dean wants to know.

Max's eyes turn flinty. "How the hell do you know about that?"

Eliot stands there with his arms crossed, pokerfaced. "I know a lot of things. I've done some freelancing for the military."

Dean pulls out a couple of machetes out of his duffel and throws them at the two "weapons." They both catch the blades mid-air and glare at each other.

"We ready now?" Dean asks.

"I was born ready," Eliot says, with a wolfish grin. He swings the machete so that it zings through the dusty air. The others nod.

Dean can't help it. "You sure about the guns?"

The three growls he gets in reply are enough to make him shut up. Yeah, shutting up.

They kick the barricades aside and let the mindless zombies swarm in through the door.

Max is a blur, whacking the heads off of the reanimated corpses like dandelion heads. There's a pile of decapitated bodies under her flying feet.

"Damn, girl," Lindsey whistles. "Better than a Slayer."

Dean admires the view, too. Damn. Whatever a Slayer is, she or it must be hot.

He shoots a zombie that gets too close to Eliot, who's making pretty good progress himself. Actually, it's amazing, the way the man moves. Like a dance, but not the froufy kind. Graceful and violent at the same time.

Dean explodes another few zombie heads and reloads.

Lawyer Boy's jumping around all over the place, doing flips and waving that big ass sword around like a person waving a big ass sword around. Showoff.

They go on at that pace until the remaining zombies act on whatever survival instinct they have left and scatter away.

Max lowers her blade first. "They're gone."

The others listen for a moment longer and put their weapons down, too. They nod at each other, pleased at a job well-done.

Max and Eliot return their borrowed machetes to Dean and turn to leave.

Dean takes his chance and squeezes Max's ass. He was right. It _is_ nice.

He gets a _whack_ across the back of his head for his trouble. It's totally worth it. She likes him. It's like foreplay. "Evil hand," he says with a wink. Max growls. Sexy.

Lindsey smirks at him, and Eliot shakes his head. "Goddamned idiot," he mutters. "She's gonna eat that son alive."

"Maybe that's the fun of it," Lindsey says, getting a far-off look in his eyes.

"You're disgusting. All of you," Max snarls and is gone so fast that Dean looks around to see where she'd gone. He wonders if her genetic whatsit enables her to teleport, wonders if she's part-angel. Lindsey twitches at the sudden disappearance, and Eliot looks perfectly unruffled.

"Well boys, drink? Saw a bar a ways back."

"Sure."

"Sounds good. So long as it's not a karaoke bar."

* * *

><p>AN: Oh my ChuckCas/God-like-figure-of-your-choosing, I can't believe I actually wrote such a long one-shot about absolutely nothing at all. At least I made myself laugh while I was writing it…But then again, see how nicely I connected all four shows with the twin stuff? Yeah? No…


	7. Soldier Boy

Summary: John gets weapons training in the Marines. Years later, he's training again, this time as a hunter. Pre-series. Title from the Metallica song "Disposable Heroes."

…And we're back to the angst again. How'd you like the fun last chapter? Evil hand! *sorry*

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><p><strong>Soldier Boy<strong>

"Get your goddamn asses movin', ya goddamn pus-filled balls of scum! Ya think you're goddamn tough? You are in the goddamn Marines, boys. There ain't no goddamn room for goddamn maggots in the goddamn United States Marine Corps! Winchester! Are you a goddamn scum-suckin' maggot?"

John pants as the _goddamn_ drill sergeant puts the new recruits through their paces. It's hard work, harder than anything he's ever done before, even when he was training for football in school. He's in better shape now than he's ever been in his life, but he's not sure if he loves it or hates it.

He's too tired to make up his mind.

"No, drill sergeant, sir!"

They've shown him how to shoot a gun, fight with a knife, wrestle, crawl on his belly, and duck and cover his sorry ass when people are shooting at him - plenty of things that could potentially save his life out in the jungles of Vietnam. And he's damn grateful to the United States Marine Corp for that, but jeezus mama, he's _tired_.

"Then move your goddamn ass, boy!"

"Yes, sir!"

O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O

"Move your ass, Winchester! Ya call yerself a Marine? You ain't tougher'n shit, boy! Move it!"

John decides then and there that Daniel Elkins is a goddamn bastard. He wonders what position the man had held in the war, because he woulda made one hell of a drill sergeant. He hates the guy, but he's grateful to him, too, because Elkins is training him how to hunt, and if he learns how to hunt, he'll be able to find the thing that killed his Mary.

So he ducks, he rolls, he shoots, and he throws knives at the fast-moving dummies the man has ingeniously set up to attack him. He hits the books and learns which plants are used in what rituals, how to kill a vampire, and the differences between a werewolf and a loup-garou. He learns and he trains and he sets his eyes on the big shining goal at the end of the line.

By the end of the day, he's so damn tired and sore that the words swim in front of him, and he doesn't resist when Dean decides it's bedtime for Daddy too, and tugs silently at his sleeve to get him to lie down on the guest room bed next to him and Sammy.

And all the while, Elkins watches the three of them with old eyes and hopes that John manages to kill his monster before he ends up killing his boys, too.


	8. Sunrise

Summary: Every once in a while, Sam takes the gun out. That gun. The special one.

(Usually, I write more in the summary, but anything more will ruin the story. If you _want_ to be spoiled, scroll down to the very bottom. Side note: This is actually kind of my favorite from this collection that I've written so far.)

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><p><strong>Sunrise<strong>

Every once in a while, Sam takes the gun out. That gun. The special one.

He sits there at his table and holds it in his hands, just sitting, remembering.

He remembers the beautiful blond-haired, fiery-spirited woman he'd loved for so short a time, before she was so abruptly, so _painfully_, taken from him. He remembers the green-eyed man who'd taught him all he knows about the supernatural, about hunting. He remembers, and wonders how in the hell he'd gotten here, to where he is today, a lonely old man living in a one-room cabin in the isolation of the dark Wyoming hills.

Once, he'd been a young man, bright and intelligent, hard-working, _innocent_, with good prospects ahead of him. Then the darkness had found him, and had drawn him in deeper and deeper until he'd been consumed by it, fueled by it. He'd lost beloved friends, brothers, fellow hunters in the long, hard years that had followed.

He'd drowned himself in bad whiskey and hunted. Hunted like he'd been taught, hunted like nothing else mattered.

Until one day, he'd found himself old and alone. Alone and forgotten, the only one who knows, who _remembers_.

He sits there, drowning in memories and old regrets, until one day, a young man from the future comes and tells him that his gun, the special gun that can kill anything, the gun that he'd paid for with blood and sweat and love, is needed to kill a monster that isn't supposed to exist.

Sam looks at the man and sees himself.

He tells the giant from the future with his magic brick that he doesn't have it, that it's a curse, that a life chasing nightmares will mean nothing when he's old and alone and forgotten.

And then the man, the other Sam, tells him that he's a hero, that his life does mean something, that his gun, the gun that he'd created with tears and anger and hate, can keep the world from ending…

So he tells him, "Take it. And God bless."

He hasn't believed in God for years now, but he says it anyway.

The man takes the gun with a wry twist in his lips, like he knows, like God's forgotten him, too.

But maybe this, giving this other Sam the gun, will remind Him that Samuel Colt is still around and kicking, still doing His work by hunting down and killing all the evil sonsabitches he can find…Maybe someday, he'll be this kid's hero. Maybe one day, he'll have helped save the world.

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><p>AN: Episode tag to 6.18 "Frontierland." Samuel Colt and Sam Winchester in 1861. Title from Sunrise, WY, where the episode took place.<p> 


	9. Tears of Silver

Summary: Never, in even her wildest nightmares, had she ever thought that she would go out like this. Madison in 2.17 "Heart." Death!fic (canon).

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><p><strong>Tears of Silver <strong>

Never, in even her wildest nightmares, had she ever thought that she would go out like this.

She's a monster. They tell her that she's a killer, that she's brutally murdered three men, _at least_. No matter that those men had all hurt her - she'd killed them, ripped out their hearts with her claws, her bare teeth.

She's a monster. And they have to kill her.

They'd tried to save her, to find a cure, and they'd thought it'd worked, but it hadn't, and oh God, how could this happen to her?

She'd thought that night, the night last month when she'd been attacked, was the best thing to have ever happened to her. She'd finally been able to get up the courage to leave Kurt, abusive, angry Kurt, and to start a new life, to find a nicer guy, a guy like Sam, but she'd been wrong.

It was the worst thing to have ever happened to her in her entire life. Glen, her neighbor, who'd always been so sweet, so caring, had been the one to attack her, to infect her with this nightmarish disease. He'd turned her into a monster. And now, he's dead, but she's still a…she can't even say it. She's a werewolf.

A goddamn werewolf. Like something that belongs in a horror movie or a Stephen King novel, or someplace not in the middle of San Francisco.

She's angry, angry at Glen, angry at God, for taking her newfound thirst for life from her, angry at Sam, at Dean, for not being able to _fix_ this, and yes, she knows she's being irrational, that there's nothing they could have done to make it better - she'd already been infected when they'd rolled into town in that big black muscle car of theirs - but still, she wants to be angry at them, and they're making it so hard because they're so, so sorry, sorry they can't help her, but they want to keep trying, want to keep looking for _something_.

But she knows what they have to do. She knows she can't do it herself, so she asks Sam to do it. Sam can't. She sees it in his eyes, sees that what she's asking him to do is killing him inside, but God, she can't do it on her own.

Dean takes the gun from her, and she sees the apology in his eyes, sees how sorry he is, not for her, he doesn't pity her, and she's so very thankful for that, but he's sorry that he can't save her. He knows what has to be done, too.

Then he leaves, follows Sam into the next room, leaving her alone with her thoughts, and she thinks, she realizes, that this past month was the best goddamn month of her life. She'd broken up with an abusive boyfriend, gotten back in control of her life, and found something that might have turned into love. All in one short, quicksilver month, but it was the best in her life.

And now it has to end, and don't get her wrong, she doesn't want to die any more than the next person does, but she doesn't want to keep killing, doesn't want her life to be out of her control, so she closes her eyes, breathes deep through the sobs that hitch in her chest, and accepts it. Accepts that this is the only way she can get that control of her life that she's been so long without back.

When Sam reappears, he's crying more than she is. She smiles at him, forgives him, and closes her eyes so he doesn't have to look into them as he shoots her.

When death comes, it's over in one hot, breathless punch in her chest. She's glad that Sam's such a good shot and knows exactly where to aim so that it doesn't hurt at all. She's sorry that she's hurt him, but she wants him to know that it'll get better, that life's too short to have regrets.

She hopes that he understands that. And she's sorry.


	10. Young Guns

Summary: The sight of his brother with the gun in his hands stops his heart cold when he walks into the room. Pre-series wee!chesters.

(Okay, I admit it. This one kinda sucks.)

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><p><strong>Young Guns<strong>

The sight of his brother with the gun in his hands stops his heart cold when he walks into the room.

He'd slept in, not an uncommon thing, since school just got out for the summer. Dad's out of town again, working. He's looking for the monster that killed Mom. Dean wishes _(secretly)_, that Dad could stay with them more, but he quickly quashes the selfish thought down. He then wishes that he could go out with his father to kill monsters, be a superhero just like him.

But Sammy should never, _ever_ have to know about the things that go bump in the dark.

And Sammy should never, _ever_, not in a million years, _ever_ have to hold a gun.

Which is why Dean completely, absolutely, positively freaks out when he sees Sammy holding the shotgun that hot, sticky Tuesday morning.

"Sammy! Put that down!"

He's over there in a flash, wrenching the gun (which is actually taller than his little brother) out of Sammy's hands.

Sammy cries out, and Dean feels the remorse stab his chest, but he hardens his heart against the tears.

"You never, _ever_ touch this, do you understand, Sammy?" he says, holding on tight to his brother's arm. Sammy's eyes are huge, and the tears are welling up, threatening to spill over. "Sammy. Do _not_ touch the gun. _Ever_."

A big, round tear breaks free and rolls down Sammy's cheek, still chubby with baby fat. "I'm sorry, Dean," he whimpers.

And that just about breaks Dean. He props the gun back up against the wall where it belongs and wraps both arms around his brother. "I didn't mean to scare ya, buddy, but you scared me when I saw you with that gun, alright? It's dangerous."

Sammy sniffles into Dean's shirt. "But you 'n' Daddy hold it all th' time. And th' other guns, too. Why can't I?"

"Well we're older'n you, that's why." Dean pulls away and looks into his brother's wet eyes with his most serious expression. "And we gotta protect you."

Sammy frowns. "That's what I was tryin' to do. I wanna protect you, too, Dean! 'Cuz you takes real good care of me." Sammy can be serious, too, and he wants Dean to know that.

Dean scoffs. "That's my job, dummy." He ruffles the unruly mop of chestnut hair. "You don't have to protect me. Dad does that." He goes to the kitchen and pulls out a box of cereal. "You just concentrate on eating your Lucky Charms and gettin' tall."

The frown's still on Sammy's face when Dean looks back up at his brother. "Sammy. Breakfast."

"But I wanna help," the kid says, arms crossed and _pouting _with everything he's got.

Dean sighs and goes over to his baby brother. Crouching down to his level, he says, "Okay, you wanna help me? Then don't touch the guns and the knives, alright? It scares me when you do that because you could get hurt. And then it would be my fault."

He waits for his brother to just _get_ it, to understand, so that Dean can relax a little and not worry every minute of every day that Sammy's going to try to get at all the guns stashed in the motel room.

He waits until Sammy nods and says, "Okay, Dean. I won't touch the guns."

"Or the knives," Dean prompts.

"Or the knives," Sammy repeats dutifully. "Can I have the prize in the cereal?"

Dean straightens and musses his brother's hair again, just 'cause. "Yeah, sure."

At least now he can rest a little easier. Sammy said he wouldn't touch the weapons, and he won't. Baby brother might be able to work the puppy-dog eyes on his big brother for all he's worth, but Dean has a few tricks up his sleeve, too. Any threats of getting in trouble _because_ of Sammy would make his little brother doubly sure not to do whatever it is that might be constituted as trouble-making.

So Dean lets Sammy have the paper red-and-blue 3-D glasses that come with the cereal to be used on the funny drawings on the box. Sammy's safe.

A year later, he's helping Dad set up beer cans so Sammy can practice shooting. He's scared, deep down in his gut, and he hates the feeling.


	11. And I Ride, Dead or Alive

Summary: The Winchesters were stone-cold dead when Roy and Walt left them in that motel room, no question about it. Tag to ep 5.16 "Dark Side of the Moon." Title from the Bon Jovi song "(Wanted) Dead or Alive."

Okay, this started out as a humor fic idea, then it got…kinda dark…-ish. But I always wanted to know what became of Roy and Walt, so here it is. This is why they haven't made another appearance in the show.

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><p><strong>And I Ride, Dead or Alive<strong>

They'd shot them, killed them dead (redundancy is mandatory when it's the goddamned _Winchesters_ you're talking about). They'd seen the light go out of their eyes, watched their breathing stop, their pulses, their heartbeats, _everything_ stop. The Winchesters were stone-cold dead when Roy and Walt left them in that motel room, no question about it.

Dead as any two doornails could ever hope to be.

Dead men past walking and gunned down dead.

Dead, dead, dead. Dead.

So one month, six months, two whole _years_ later, how the hell are there reports of them still drivin' around in that god-awful monster car of theirs, Christ-frickin'-_goddamned_ alive? And still causin' shitloads of evil crap? Apocalypse, supernatural creatures not acting like themselves, angels gone evil.

"Causing," because it's. All. Their. Fault. No way are Roy and Walt believing anything otherwise. If anyone can create that much chaos, it's the Winchesters.

They've heard that the wrath of God is a terrible thing, but the wrath of Dean Winchester ain't nothin' to laugh at either. And they've gone and gotten his attention this time. They'd gone and shot his goddamned little brother. (Well, and Dean, too, but from what they've heard and know about the man, what you do to him doesn't matter, it's what you do to his brother.)

Shit.

So much for tryin' to be heroes. That's the last time they're going in, guns blazing, tryin' to save the world. Look what they'd got for it.

When Dean Winchester says he's gonna hunt you down _when_ he gets back from the dead, they know (now) that he means it. And it so ain't fun hidin' and runnin' for your life when you just _know_ he's right behind you.

It's been a coupla years, but you know a Winchester never forgets a grudge. Ever. See how Johnny Winchester hunted his demon for over twenty years? They don't forget. (They're like whales, or was it elephants?)

Not even if Dean's something like the living dead, he wouldn't forget. He's probably just taking his time, waiting, all death-like and not-dead and shit.

So they're hiding.

(And for the information of those hoity-toity nincompoops who have made laughingstocks of Roy and Walt for broadcasting good news too soon, they know for _sure_ that both those Winchesters were dead when they'd left. For sure dead. Dead, dead, dead. Big, gaping holes in their chests dead. Dead.)

* * *

><p>AN: No, Dean's not actively looking for them. He's got more important things to worry about, like "I AM GOD!"-Cas. But if he ever sees them again…<p> 


	12. Salt in the Wound

Summary: Sam shoots Dean in Asylum, Dean POV. Big pile o' angst, as usual.

* * *

><p><strong>Salt in the Wound<strong>

He hadn't thought that Sam would really do it, but it never hurt to be prepared, so he'd _un_loaded the gun (they're hunting ghosts, so a gun with lead or silver bullets wouldn't even work) and put it back where it belonged in the small of his back.

Then he'd gone to look for him in the basement. What those kids had said about Sam answering a call from Dean, even though he hadn't made one, well, that was suspicious. And Dean knows that supernatural beings are quite capable of manipulating electronics, including cell phones.

So he's not in the least bit surprised that Sam finds him and points his shotgun at him. Possessed by the spirit, probably. Or affected, or _something_. Not himself. Because Sam would never point a gun at him, loaded or not. Dad had always drilled it into them that you don't point a gun at someone unless you're willing to kill them. Same idea goes for guns loaded with salt rounds.

Dean doesn't want to get blasted in the chest with salt either, 'cause that stuff burns like a bitch, so he tries to stall, get Sam (or the spirit or whatever) to ya know, change his mind. It doesn't work, just pisses him off even more and the shit ends up blasting into his chest anyway. It stings like a mother.

It hurts, too, that the reason Sam shoots him in the first place isn't to kill him. No, it's to hurt him. And the things he says, they sting as much as the salt (almost, or maybe more, he's not quite sure on that front).

"_Good little soldier." "Pathetic." "Desperate for approval."_

It hits him right where it hurts, because it's all true, he knows it is, in the back of his mind, in the bottom of his heart, he's always known. Sam's always been the rebellious one, the one Dad always paid more attention to (not that Dean minded; Sam deserved his attention, his love). But it hurts that Sam's the one saying it.

But Sam's not himself. Dean has to fix that.

So he offers the gun, the gun that he'd unloaded in preparation. Sam doesn't know it doesn't have bullets, real bullets that can kill, in it.

And it kills him (not literally, dumbass), that his brother takes it. He actually takes it and fires it. Not only does he fire it, he cleans out the entire clip, looking perfectly frustrated that there are _no bullets_ in the damn thing.

It provides enough of a distraction for Dean to get up and knock him out.

But damn, it hurts, it burns. Sam had taken the gun from him and shot it, knowing full well that he could have, would have, killed Dean. Sure, he hadn't been in his right mind, but still. It hurt. And once hadn't been enough for him. He'd hated him enough to shoot more than once, twice, the whole clip.

It hurts, but Dean's good at dealing with pain. He pushes it back into the corner of his mind where he keeps his most painful memories, and takes it all out on Ellicott.

Burn in Hell, ghostie.

But when he's alone in the crappy-motel-room-of-the-week's bathroom, tweezering out all the little bits of salt embedded in his chest (he doesn't let Sam within five feet of him, because the look in those damn puppy eyes just…frickin' guilty puppy eyes), he lets the memory drain back into the forefront of his mind, lets the pain, the insecurity flicker in his heart.

Maybe Sam is right to be angry at him, to hate him. Maybe one day he'll really be mad enough to take the gun and pull that trigger. Twice, three times. Because mad at Dad's always meant mad at the world, mad about hunting, mad at Dean. Disappointed in Dean. Maybe he secretly hates him for dragging him away from Jessica that night, back into hunting. Maybe, maybe…

Sam raps on the door. "You sure you don't want me to do it? I could. I mean, I've got steadier hands. It wouldn't…hurt as much. Dean? You okay?"

He folds the memory up and puts it back into the box in the corner of his mind where he keeps all the hurt in his life, and locks it.

"Yeah, I'm fine. I don't need a friggin' nurse, 'specially not one as ugly as you, bitch."


	13. Johnny Got His Gun

Summary: He'd finally gotten his hands on the Colt, the legendary Colt. John POV circa ep 2.01 "In My Time Of Dying," with bits from up to Season 6. Title from the book by Dalton Trumbo.

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><p><strong>Johnny Got His Gun<strong>

It was heavier than he'd expected, weighed down by the years, its dark history. He remembered wondering if the rumors he'd heard about the curse on the gun were true, wondering if it would eventually catch him up in its web.

But like any man who takes up a cursed object with the hope of using it for the sake of good, he had given no more thought to the matter, and had simply taken the demon-killing gun and run with it. He had planned and plotted around it.

The yellow-eyed sonofabitch was going to die, no question about it. He was going to shoot the damn bastard (in the heart, in the head, in the goddamned throat) with the Colt.

He should have paid more attention to the rumor of the Curse.

It was said that Samuel Colt, the gun's maker, its first owner, had lost the woman he'd loved to it, had lost friends to it, and had carried it bitterly into his old age, until it had inexplicably fallen into the hands of a non-hunter named Elkins, who soon learned about the supernatural world when he'd died at the hands (or claws or teeth - the books hadn't specified) of something not natural.

The gun had been passed from generation to generation, brother to son, uncle to cousin, all either dying of unnatural causes or having close friends and family die unexplained deaths. And so, it seemed, it had been passed down to Daniel Elkins (the lying bastard _sonofabitch_), who had also followed the family tradition in the horrible manner of his death. The vampires, although only brief owners of the gun, had fallen victims to its curse as well.

And then there was John himself. Here he was, trading his life, his soul, and the gun for his firstborn son's life. It wasn't a _bad_ bargain, but it wasn't the best. For his son, for Dean, though, he'd do anything. And the thrice-damned demon knew it.

Still, it wasn't a bad deal. For Dean.

So John gave the Colt to the demon, the yellow-eyed devil who'd taken his wife, his beloved Mary, and his son's Jessica, he gave it to him, and hoped that it would carry on and curse the sulfur-breathed sonofabitch, like it had cursed all its former owners.

_And whaddayaknow? It did._


	14. Gone Shootin'

Summary: Dean's dying. That's all he has time or wit to think. Mystery Spot tag. Title is an ACDC song.

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><p><strong>Gone Shootin'<strong>

Dean's dying.

That's all he has time or wit to think. He can't believe this is really happening. Not now, not yet, not ever.

There's blood, warm red blood everywhere, and the Mystery Spot owner's gaping at them just like the hole in Dean's chest, and _oh god_, the deal, Dean's gonna go to hell, and Sam was supposed to stop it, he was supposed to _save_ him. Dean's dying, _dying_, looking at him with so much love (he never said he loved him, but he made sure Sam knew it, always knew it), forgiveness (no, no forgiveness, Dean, not for a man who couldn't stop his brother from going to hell), love…

And then he's gone. Limp in his arms.

Sam clenches his eyes shut, holds his brother close, wants to scream out his pain, his loss…

And then he hears _Heat of the Moment_ click on, and it's a new day.

Or rather, it's the _same_ day, and he thinks, it was just a dream, or a flash of _no, not déjà-vu, Dean_. Arguing with his brother somewhat assuages his fear, the irrational fear he'd felt when he'd woken up this morning, and he relaxes…

And then it happens again.

Dean's dying, Dean's dead, again and again, and again and again, until Sam goes half out of his mind. And still it happens, whatever he does, whatever he says, whatever he _doesn't_ do, Dean dies. And Sam can't stop it. But he can't _not_ try to stop it. He can't. Because Dean can't die, he just can't, and if he could just figure out what the hell (and there's something wrong with that figure of speech) is going on, he'd be able to stop it, stop Dean from dying.

And Dean dies again. (Stupid Doris with her stupid arrows and her stupid crossbow and her stupid hot sauce.)

Then one day, he notices something. The pancake syrup, it's not right, it's not maple, it's strawberry. It's the Trickster, and he fixes it all, Sam _makes_ him fix it, and it's alright, it's okay, but they're still getting out of dodge as soon as they can anyway (and lord Jesus, he loves _Back in Time_).

And then Dean dies. Again. He gets shot in the chest, just like the first time, yet not quite because it's Cal this time, and it's happened for real, and Dean's really gone this time, and there's no Trickster to bring him back (and he'll find him, he will, if it kills him doing it, he will), and Sam's no Charlie Brown, but _he just can't _**stand**_ it_.

This is the last time, because Sam doesn't wake up. He doesn't wake up, and he wants to, god, he wants to, but he just can't wake up, and this can't be real, but it is, it can't be, but it shouldn't be, it's all going to start over again, it has to…

But it doesn't, and he's through waiting, he's going to find that goddamned Trickster and make him pay, make him take it all back, make him bring Dean back, and keep it that way. He's got to.

He's got to fix it. He's got to put it back the way it was, so Sam can go back to finding out ways to save Dean from dying again, and finding ways to keep him out of hell. Because Dean's in hell right now, this very minute, right now, he's burning and he's screaming, and _god_, Sam can't sleep knowing that. Dean shouldn't be in hell, he should be alive, Sam is the one who should be dead. He's the one with the demon blood in him, he's the bad egg. Not Dean, not self-sacrificing, over-protective, _stupid_ Dean.

So he hunts, he looks for signs of that Trickster, makes Bobby help him, and maybe he gets just a tad trigger-happy, but when the old hunter just about gives up on him, he keeps going, because Dean can't be dead. Dean deserves better than this.

And finally, Bobby calls him. He's found something about the Trickster, a summoning ritual that will bring him to them. It needs a gallon of fresh blood, and that's a pity because _it's for Dean_ and Sam needs Dean. So Sam needs to go get a gallon of fresh human blood, but Bobby's in the way, he says Sam can't do that, and why the hell not? It's for Dean.

But Bobby says, no, kill him instead, and Sam takes the knife, and there's something hinky about all this, something not right, so he takes the pine stake he always has, just in case he finds the Trickster, just in case, and he stabs Bobby in the back, right through the chest, right through his heart. The stake'll kill the Trickster, if it's him playing with him, and if it's not, there's still the blood.

He's right, though, and it's not really Bobby (and a small part of him that still cares what Dean would think is relieved at that), and the Trickster's there, and he's talking, he's monologuing, and Sam, Sam just _breaks_.

_Please_, he says, no, he begs it, he begs on his knees, _bring my brother back. I need him_.

And the Trickster, he's just playing with them, just playing, but they're not toys, but maybe he's touched a soft spot in him, because the deity snaps his fingers and…

_Back in Time_ is his favorite song.


	15. Guns For Hire

Summary: Some dudes all in black hire the boys to hunt a ghost in Some Building Somewhere…"We know about you. We know what you do." Title is a song by ACDC.

Lampito, you are awesome. Thanks for the idea! Here's a little bit of crack from the maker of "Peel" and "Holy Fish Taco."

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><p><strong>Guns For Hire<strong>

The Men in Black are real. For shit real.

How does Dean know this, you might ask?

Did he get abducted by aliens? (Well, _kind of_, that one time, only it was fairies, and doesn't _really_ count. That much.) Did he see someone get abducted by aliens? Did he accidentally stumble upon Area 51 (or 52, like the rumors by those who are really "in" on the alien deal say)?

No.

He's a ghost hunter. And he's on some _list_ as an _expert_. He and Sammy are on a government list that is not the FBI's Most Wanted. Surprise, surprise. Awesome.

Actually, it _is_ kind of awesome. Ya know, being acknowledged as experts in something that's not technically even supposed to exist aside from in movies, television, and bad reality shows.

It's nice to be taken seriously for a change.

There _were_ a few minutes there when they'd thought, "Oh, hell, no, who did we piss off this time?" because some dudes all in black just up and busted into their motel room. Then they'd told them that "We know about you. We know what you do." Which is great. Super. Right?

Right.

They're being hired (as in paid, in real money!) by some covert government agency as experts to get rid of a ghost in the library of the XXXXXXXXXXX Building in XXXXXXXXXXX, XXXXXXXXXXX. (By the way, what the hell is up with the censoring, man? Not cool.)

Problem? No firearms allowed in the building. Federal policy.

How the hell are they supposed to do their jobs if they can't bring their tools of the trade? Seriously, man. Saltguns are the staple of a good ghost hunter. You can't hunt without salt or iron in a shotgun, people.

But Winchesters are resourceful, even if just a bit pissed off (on Dean's part - Sam's a law-abiding wuss and doesn't care one way or another), so they figure out a way to get around the stupid frickin' "No Weapons" (no knives, no iron bars, no _nothin'_) rule.

Water guns.

You read that right: Water guns.

As in, the plastic toy things that shoot water out of the little nozzle at the end of the "gun" that's usually supposed to go _**BANG!**_ on a _normal_ gun.

Dean feels like a loser. Seriously.

Okay, not really. The Super Soaker Tornado Strike model is kinda cool. Well, it would be if he was like, ten.

Anyway.

They fill the water magazines with holy water mixed with salt. It should work.

So prepared for XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX, aka Mr. Pissed Off Politician Ghostie, in case he shows up, they set out (with a pair of escorts, and not the hot kind in sexy lingerie either) for the XXXXXXXXXXX Building. He turns up, tosses them around, and they save the MiB's asses with their Super Soaker Salt Guns. Luckily for them, they work.

Ol' XXXXXXXXX looks exactly like his portrait that's hung up in the library, except dead. Which is good, because there's an ID on him now. The MiB tell Sam and Dean that they'd already IDed the ghost as XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX, but they tell the guys that no, they're the experts, so they have to do the research.

Research is easy. Sam does it in the basement of the XXXXXXXXX Building, where they practically have a shrine set up to the dude in the form of books, books, documents, books, letters, old clothes, books…you get the idea.

Seems XXXXXXXXXXX was a bigshot in his day, obviously, since he has a portrait in the library of the friggin' building that's named after him. But he did some shit with XXXX and XXXXXXXXXXX, which is supposed to be something that has to do with XXXXX in the XXXXXXXXXXXX election in the XXXX in XXXXXXXXX. That led to the XXXXXXXXX and the XXXXXXXXXXX on XXXXXXX XX, XXXX, in the town of XXXXXX, XXXXXXXXXXX. He XXXXXXXX a XXXXXXXXXX and did some shit with XXXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXX to cause some shit in the XXXXXXXXX with XXXXX XXXXXX XXXXXXXX on the XXXXXXXXXXX and XXXXXXXXX XXXXXX XXXXXXXX it.

(The _**HELL?**_ Are cuss words censored, too? XXXX! XXXX XXX! XXXXXXX-XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXX!)

So they figure all this out, and make a trip to the XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX Cemetery, where the dude is buried, and they dig him up, blah, blah, blah, normal business. Ghostie shows up, tosses them around again while they're digging (and do they make the G-men dig? Oh, yes they do. Putting tax dollars to work, man), but they can use real guns now, since they're not in that stupid-ass building anymore. So no problem there.

RIP, dipshit.

And stay dead. Just because the guy's life was boring as dust, doesn't mean that he has to make up for it in his afterlife. Jeesh. Politicians suck.

All in all, it's a pretty normal job for them. The MiB look a little shaken up, but that's normal for newbies, even if they know about aliens and other shit that doesn't exist. They shake hands, get the XXXX dollars in cash, and drive off into the sunset.

And hope the MiB don't ever ask them to do this again, because _knowing_ the government is watching all the time is kind of freaky. It's like Dean almost can't ever have sex again for fear of being watched. Almost.

Jeesh.

XXXXXXX XXX XXXXXXX.


	16. First Blood

Summary: The first time Dean gets shot. Title from the ACDC song.

Very short. My apologies.

* * *

><p><strong>First Blood <strong>

The first time Dean ever holds a gun, Dad hands it to him and says, "Son, let's see how good you were paying attention," and watches him dismantle and reassemble it. It takes him under a minute to do it.

Dad looks pleased.

The first time Dean ever shoots a gun, Dad sets up a row of cans and teaches him how to aim. The bullet goes straight through the middle of the Pabst beer can.

Dad looks proud.

The first time Dean ever shoots something alive with a gun, it's inches away from tearing his dad apart. He gets it smack dab in the center of its spiny forehead, and sends another silver bullet through its heart just to make sure.

Dad looks relieved _and_ proud.

The first time Dean ever _gets_ shot, it's for Sammy. He lunges right in there front of him, pushing him out of the way; he's there before his dad can do the same. It's better him than Dad or Sammy, he tells his father.

Dad looks pained. Dean wonders fuzzily if he's been shot, too.

When he wakes up, Dad yells at him. Don't ever do that to him again.

Still, the rebellious little voice at the back of Dean's head says, if he had the chance to do it over again, he would do the same thing he had done. Every damn time.

Because it's Sammy, Dad.


	17. Deeeaaaann

Summary: Sam gets an infection from Bela's gunshot wound in 3.03 "Bad Day at Black Rock." Whiny Sam, grumpy Dean.

* * *

><p><strong>Deeeaaaann <strong>

"Deeeeaaaaaannnnn. It huuuuurrrrrrtttts."

Seriously. Has his day _not_ been bad enough already? Okay, not counting the rash of seemingly good luck they'd had because of the rabbit's foot, but then it had all been taken away by Bela and her stupid sticky fingers. (His lottery tickets, man. They woulda been set for life. Well, Sam's life, anyway. Dean's a goner any which way you look at it.)

"Deeeaaaaaannnnnn."

Stupid Sam and his tendency to poke and prod and touch things that _he's not supposed to friggin' touch!_ "Dean? What's this?" _Poke. _"Dean, what's that?" _Poke. _"Dean?" _Touch. Touch. _"Dean." _Poke. Poke._

Seriously, man. All his life, he's been touchy-feely and _pokey_. And now look. It's come back and bit them in the ass. Well, Sam's ass, really, or more his shoulder.

"Deeeeeaaaaannnn, it's on fiiiiiiiirrrrre."

How old is he? Granted, his little brother might have a slight fever from the bullet wound in his shoulder (stupid Bela) getting infected _because he'd poked at it_, but how long can three one-syllable words sound?

"Deeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaannnn. Huuuuuuurrrrrrrrrrrrrrts. Fiiiiiiiiiiiiiiirrrrrrrrrrre."

"Sammy! Shut up and take the antibiotics already or I'll take you to the hospital."

"But Deeeeaaaaaannnnn. It huuuuurrrrrrtttts."

Damn puppy-dog eyes.

"Here's a new ice pack, Sammy. Feel any better?"

"Yeah, Deeeeaaaaaannnnn. All better."

Seriously. Dean is not a cuddle toy. But maybe…just this once. Big baby. And he did get shot in the shoulder by some prissy British bitch.


	18. Shot Down In Flames

Summary: The Colt, again. This time, it's Dean in 5.04 "The End." Title from the ACDC song.

* * *

><p><strong>Shot Down In Flames<strong>

Dean's all about survival. He has to be; he's got people depending on him now, not just himself, not just Sammy (no, don't say _that_ name, don't even think it), not just Dad. Bobby's dead and Cas is a useless hippie, but there are two hundred other people who are depending on him to keep them alive and safe.

It's a job that no one wants, so of course, he's the one that gets it.

They trust him, but they're scared of him. He sees it in their eyes when he patrols the camp at night. Children cry when they see him (they never used to do that, they always used to like him). Women sleep with him with the hope of getting more food, more supplies, just a smidge more, just to survive.

Cas laughs at him, and he sees the emptiness he feels in his own soul echoed in the fallen angel's eyes.

He's empty. And the thing is, he doesn't really care. The part of him that used to care, that would have cared, is dead, gone, just like his brother. His brother who'd given up. His brother, on whom Dean had given up.

When the Dean from the past arrives, he's ashamed. He doesn't want to see how much he's changed, doesn't want the others to see how much he's changed (Cas and Chuck know, but they'd never tell anyone else. Cas says it to his face all the time, but Chuck just looks at him and ducks his head down a moment later). He doesn't want to remember a time when he was so fresh-faced (and how messed up is that, that he thinks of the him who'd already been to hell and had been betrayed by his brother as naïve and innocent?), when he'd been so soft as to actually _care_.

He's had his sights on the gun for a long time. It's the gun that had killed the Yellow-Eyed Demon, the gun that would kill Lucifer. The gun that would kill Sam, but he doesn't think about that. Because he doesn't care. He tells his past self that he would kill Sam, and he doesn't care. Dean just looks at him with a horrified expression. He looks shell-shocked. Dean guesses he would be too, if he'd just been dumped into his life.

He manages to track the Colt down. He has to torture seven demons to get to it, but he finally does. They lose two men to the Croats on site, and one to infection. Dean shoots him himself, while the kid still doesn't suspect that he's been infected.

His younger self doesn't get it. He can't get it, not unless he's been through what Dean's been through. He sees the moment when the man makes up his mind to _not_ become like him.

But he knows himself. He knows that he will make the same mistakes, make the same foolish, proud mistakes, and he knows that he will harden, become callous, become him.

Past Dean doesn't get what has to be done. Dean has to kill Lucifer (he has to kill Sam). To save the many, sacrifice the few. He makes the decision to offer up Cas, Risa, and the rest of their small group in order to save the camp. He makes the decision to sacrifice himself to save the world.

In the end, his hand falters. He can't kill his brother. Not Sam. Not Sammy.

The last thing he sees before Lucifer snaps his neck under one white-shod foot is Dean. The expression on his face is part horror, part pity, part understanding.

Maybe the future will change after all.


	19. A Hunter's Fairy Tale

Summary: Bedtime in a hunting household. Samuel and wee!Mary. Overload of cuteness to make up for the angst of previous chapters. References to 4.03 "In the Beginning" and 1.20 "Dead Man's Blood."

* * *

><p><strong>A Hunter's Fairy Tale<strong>

"There was a time when hunters rode on horseback, and hunted the evil in the land- "

"Just like you do!"

"Yes, Mary, just like your mama and I do."

"But not in cars."

"That's right, sweetheart. They hunted on horseback."

"If I had a horse, it would be black. Or white. But it would be all shiny and, and have long pretty hair- What's a horse's hair called, Daddy?"

"You mean its mane? Horses have manes."

"Can I have a horse, Daddy?"

"No, honey, you can't have a horse."

"Why not?"

"Because they're hard to take care of. And where would we keep it?"

"In the basement?"

"No, horses need a lot of sunlight."

"Oh, okay."

"Can I continue the story now?"

"Yes, Daddy."

"Get back under the covers, sweetheart. Alright, where was I?"

"Hunters used ta hunt on horses."

"Right. And one such hunter was a man named Samuel Colt."

"Samuel like you, and Colt like the gun!"

"That's right, Mary. Colt was a gunsmith- "

"What's a gunsmith, Daddy?"

"A gunsmith is someone who makes guns."

"Oh, okay."

"So Samuel Colt made guns, and one gun he made was very special."

"Why was it special, Daddy?"

"It was special because of the reason it was made."

"To kill things?"

"Yes, to kill things. But special creatures."

"What kind of special cree-chers?"

"Supernatural creatures. Creatures that you wouldn't be able to kill with a normal gun."

"So it was a special gun?"

"Yes, honey."

"How'd he make it?"

"Well, that's a secret."

"Can you tell me? I won't tell anyone, not even Mama."

"Well, I don't know. No one knows how he did it. All we know is that when he made it, it was when Halley's Comet was high in the sky, and- "

"Who's Halley Comet, and why was she flying?"

"Halley was a man from a long time ago who liked to watch the sky and the stars, and he discovered a comet. A comet is a big piece of rock that flies in outer space."

"I wanna go to outer space."

"That's something I'd like to see."

"I will!"

"Alright, baby."

"I will, too."

"And I believe you. Now, Halley's Comet was in the sky the same night there was a big battle at a place called the Alamo."

"So?"

"That was a special night. Not just because of the comet, or because of the Alamo, but because that was the night Samuel Colt made the gun that can kill anything."

"Anything?"

"Yes, sweetheart. Anything."

"Even the devil?"

"Yes."

"So where is it? Why don't you and Mama use it to kill everything, 'steada the knives and the normal guns?"

"Well, one reason is that it only had thirteen bullets that fit it. They were special bullets made for the special gun."

"Ohhhh. What's the other reason?"

"The second reason is that no one knows where it is."

"Why not?"

"It disappeared."

"Oooooohhhhhh. That's bad."

"Yes, baby, that's bad."

"When I grow up, I'm gonna find it."

"Maybe so, sugar. Wow, that was a mighty big yawn there. Tired?"

"Uh-huh, Daddy."

"Close your eyes and go to sleep, Mary."

"Night, Daddy."

"Good night, love. And remember, angels are watching over you."

* * *

><p>AN: The thing about the Colt being used to kill the Devil (even though it actually can't) was intentional, as was the use of "angels watching." And the irony of Mary wanting to find the gun…I couldn't pass that up.<p> 


	20. The Two Towers

Summary: The day it happens, hunters around the world stop and listen. Fic about 9-11. The title comes from the Tolkien book.

It's the tenth anniversary of 9/11 today, so I thought I'd devote a chapter of my birthday fic to the day (even though there are probably hundreds of this kind of fic being written/posted today and non-Americans are most likely sick of them by now). It's sensitive material, so I hope I don't offend anybody.

Also, I couldn't really figure out a way to mix guns/bullets/etc into this one. (I started outlining one in my head that had to do with Cas and thinking about a "Weapon of God" or "Gun of God," and found it so off-color that I deleted it from my brain. No, Poesie. Bad, insensitive kitty. There is no humor in this.) I made up my own rules for this challenge, and I wanted to do this story (as badly-written as it is), so it's okay. Right? Yeah? Right.

* * *

><p><strong>The Two Towers<strong>

oO0Oo

The day it happens, hunters around the world stop and listen. They turn up the volume on their television sets and their radios, scrutinize their newspapers, and boot up their computers, trying to see if there's anything more to it than what it seems. They pick up their phones and ask around, wonder if anyone's seen any omens, anything _off_, because this level of pure shitty crap just doesn't happen without demons or something evil pushing it. No one can come up with anything, not one of them, just a whole lot of misleading junk, and it makes them think, _God, it's not just demons. It's people, too._

oO0Oo

The day it happens, demons in every dimension stop and listen. They mingle and whisper, meet and commune, trying to see if there's anything more to it than what it seems. And they laugh. They rejoice at the damage humans, with their hypocritical, self-righteous preaching, are capable of inflicting on each other even without demons influencing them, whispering in their ears, possessing them. They giggle to each other, _You sure it's not one of us?_ Because this, what humans can do to each other, it's…diabolical. It makes them laugh.

oO0Oo

The day it happens, people around the world stop and listen. They turn up the volume on their television sets and their radios, scrutinize their newspapers, and boot up their computers, trying to see if there's anything more to it than what it seems. They call loved ones, reminded so brutally that life can end any minute, any second, and that some arguments just aren't worth having, not if it's the last thing you say to someone. Around the world, people cry. Christians and Muslims, Buddhists and Hindus, they all stop and pray for those lives lost.

oO0Oo

* * *

><p>AN: Yes, a bit melodramatic for me, but I wanted to say something about the attacks and their unintended effects on people. And while I know that there are terrorist attacks happening every day in places <em>not <em>in America, this one was the one that hit closest to home, at such an impressionable age. So yeah…Not my best work, but it's more about real life than anything I've ever written, while still being a fanfic. *goes hide*

PS: Jeez, are my ANs longer than the actual story? Huh. My bad.


	21. Smoking Gun

Summary: It's like they're taunting him. Commentary on Victor Henriksen pre-"Jus In Bello." Title from the Kip Winger song.

* * *

><p><strong>Smoking Gun<strong>

He doesn't know much about them at first. The file gets slapped down on his desk mixed in with a stack of cases about child-rapists and serial robbers. There's something about this case, the Winchester case, that intrigues him.

He flips through it, sees a sketchy history on the three men. He wonders if it's true, if a family that commits crime together stays together. Looking at the records, the places where they run their fake credit cards, the places where their distinctive '67 Chevy is spotted, he'd say not.

John Winchester, the oldest of the group, pops up all over the country, but more often than not, in places states away from where his two sons, Dean and Sam, are at the time. This goes back all the way to when those boys were just that, boys. There are records of CPS having been called in, the first time in '85 when Dean would've been just six years old. Someone had reported that they thought he and his brother had been living alone in the motel room that had been rented out for a month. They'd disappeared before CPS could get there, and had turned up three states over the next time the government had a handle on their location a month later. There were later reports of suspected abuse, reflected by the hospital records.

There was a time for a few years, too, when Sam Winchester, the youngest, ended up at Stanford University in California, of all places, living a normal college life with an honest part-time job and a normal girlfriend. The profilers tell Henriksen that this was indicative of the fact that Sam was trying to separate himself from his family, his former life. They tell him that he is an intelligent man, trying to be honest, trying to get away from the things he was taught as a child.

Sam's excellent grades, and the fact that he was able to get into the prestigious school in the first place, given his unsteady upbringing, already tell Victor that he's a smart guy. He doesn't need some kid with three PhDs to tell him that.

Still, the past is a powerful thing. It's hard to run away from. It has a way of catching up to you.

(Victor should know. Just last week, he'd caught Tasha sending him the "should I divorce him now or give him another chance" look. It's messed up that he can recognize it, but given the string of angry ex-wives, maybe it shouldn't surprise anyone.)

Sam's past catches up in 2005.

Dean Winchester shows up on his doorstep and takes Sam away, according to reports collected by the locals when Sam's girlfriend, Jessica Moore, dies in a fire in their shared apartment two nights later. A bit of digging reveals that it's the exact same manner in which Mary Winchester had died exactly twenty-two years ago.

Victor's first instinct is that Dean Winchester did it, that he needed something to get rid of the competition for his brother's love, so to speak, or maybe he has mommy issues, or a thing with blondes. Then he hits on Daddy W. Credit cards put him in town that night as well. Maybe it was a tag-team job. Jessica's death was probably the only thing that would convince Sam Winchester to return to his former life. By all accounts, he hated talking about his past, and loved his present and his future.

But that past he kept wanting to run away from, the past that wanted to catch up to him, what is it, exactly?

There are no crimes attached to Sam Winchester's name. His brother Dean has been arrested on several charges, running from petty robbery to possession of firearms, arson, underage prostitution, and grave desecration. He has been arrested, but has never been charged, evidently an accomplished jail-breaker even as a young kid. John Winchester has the same kind of charges to his name (minus the prostitution), and no county jail has ever been able to keep him either.

What kinds of suspects do the kinds of things they've done and why? What could they possibly think to gain from digging up random graves in the middle of nowhere? Do they get off on it? What is it?

Asking around, finding people they've met, Victor hits on a theory. The Winchesters think they're goddamn heroes. It makes sense. A lot of the people they've "saved" seem to think so. Victor notices that most of the "rescued" people are young, pretty women. The profile on Dean Winchester suggests that he is a cocky, womanizing bastard, and that females tend to find him attractive. Those that don't like him like Sam, with his softer, more earnest manner. As a team, they're practically unstoppable on their rampage across the country, finding victims to "save," and more often than not, sweet-talk into their beds. They've got hero complexes.

That, they got from their father, John. An ex-Marine mechanic and a loving husband and father in his past life, he'd been somehow turned by his wife's unexpected and violent death into a gun-toting vigilante. Who his targets are, Victor and the other agents can't quite figure out. It's not just blacks, or minorities. It's white females, Hispanic males, young women, old women, young boys, middle-aged men, blondes, brunettes, every goddamn demographic you can name. There's no way of predicting his next target.

The MO changes with each new place, too. Torture with a blade, hanging, strangulation, gunshot wounds, it's all used. The only thing that happens over and over again, each and every time, is that there are multiple victims. Whenever a Winchester rolls into town, there's never less than one victim, no matter how they die.

This case, it's just plain weird, is what it is. The whole thing stinks, it reeks.

First, there're the manners of death. Some ways the Winchesters think of, well, the MEs tell Victor they couldn't possibly have died that way. And then there's dates of deaths. Sometimes, there's evidence that the Winchesters were all the way across the country at the time the first couple of deaths occur. Sometimes, they happen years before they even roll into town.

It's _wrong_.

They're not so great at staying under the radar, either. The credit cards ping all over the place, but the tech geeks don't catch them until the Winchesters are already in some other town, so Victor's always a week, a month, two months too late. That pisses him off. But then, the boys (probably Dean) do something stupid that gets them caught. Like when Dean almost gets caught by the SWAT team in St. Louis while carving up some blonde school friend of Sam's. And then again when he turns up in Baltimore and "confesses" to believing in ghosts. There's also the time he sweet-talks his lawyer in Little Rock into somehow helping them escape.

Of course, they're long gone by the time Victor gets to the scene. They always are.

Always, except for that time Milwaukee. That's the first and only time Victor has ever even talked to Dean. He spins some yarn about his daddy, tries to get him riled up, tries to get him to say something that would help the team get something definitive on the family. All Victor gets are some pretty damn defensive remarks about John Winchester and a "go to hell." Something close to hero worship, it sounds like.

That's something. They way they figure it, it's Dean calling the shots when John isn't around, and Sam really has no choice but to follow them. Bonnie to Dean's dangerously insane Clyde.

Another thing Victor figures out that night: Dean Winchester is one smug bastard. He's already seen the video taken at the Baltimore police station, knows how sarcastic he could get, but goddamn, hearing it in person, well, that just gets on his nerves. Talking about victims like that, it makes him want to get out his gun and shoot something.

It would have been fine if they'd caught them that night, but they don't. The brothers just slip through their fingers like water.

And damn, if that doesn't irritate Victor in a whole 'nother spot.

He's back to following their credit card scams again, and he's not liking it. It's like they're taunting him, deliberately killing people in ways that they know will make his blood pressure rise. Reed tells him to calm down and breathe. Victor just glares at him and tells him to go get them another round of coffee, dammit!

As he gets to know the Winchesters better, he wonders what will happen in the end. If he'll finally catch them, or if they'll go out like Thelma and Louise. He rather fancies the Butch and Sundance ending. Victor would _really_ like to shoot a few rounds into that smug Winchester face. A lot. He fantasizes about it a lot, actually. Maybe even every time he puts his head down on his pillow. Of course, that's not all that often, thanks to the Winchesters. Sometimes, though, he wakes up with his gun gripped so tight in his hand, he's got grooves on his palm.

But a good agent has to do his job, so if he ever gets his hands on those sonsabitches, he'll do his goddamn government-appointed job. He'll bring 'em in, and if they happen to get a few bruises on the way, well, they resisted arrest, what's a man to do?


	22. Pearl

Yay! I'm twenty-two today! Last fic. Thank goodness. I was starting to run out of steam. Whew!

Thanks for sticking with me this far!

* * *

><p>Summary: Her name is Pearl. She's perfect. This is sooo not the kind of fic you'd think from the summary.<p>

As you probably know, I'm more than a little bit insane, so I hope you'll forgive me for this.

* * *

><p><strong>Pearl<strong>

She's got smooth, gentle curves, but hard, sharp angles too, right where she needs them. She's a tough girl.

She's always there when Dean needs her, always does what he needs her to do, but sometimes, she's got a mind of her own. That's fine. Usually, it helps him.

She's good in a fight, too. She can knock out a guy like nobody's business. A hard hit over the head and he's down.

She's perfect.

Never mind how many nicks and scars she's got all over her smooth, creamy body, she's Dean's. She belongs to him. They both know it. He's got scars, too, he thinks, as he trails a finger down one long mark on her side. They tell their history, those scars.

She's old. But sometimes, he feels older. Sometimes, he feels so tired that he just wants to give up, but the feel of her under his hands, against his back, it comforts him, gives him what he needs.

Sometimes, he admits, he'll cheat on her. But she always forgives him. She's always faithful. He takes good care of her, and she takes care of him.

She'll never jar on him (that one time with the rabbit's foot was a fluke and doesn't count). She'll run out of ammo if he doesn't keep reloading her, but that's not her fault. She's not magic, for heaven's sake.

She's not sentient, Sam tells him. But he's wrong. Big-headed bookworms don't know everything. Baby has feelings. Pearl has feelings. Doesn't matter that they're made of metal and leather and mother-of-pearl. They know when it's not him in the driver's seat and when it's not him holding the gun. They know.

They'll only run smoothly for him.

Because he takes care of them. Because he takes good care of them, they'll take good care of him.

And that's the way he likes it.

* * *

><p>AN: Yes, Pearl is a gun, not a woman. She's Dean's 1911 Colt with the mother-of-pearl handle, in case that was unclear. A man who has that kind of relationship with his car…well, he'd probably have the same kind of relationship with his favorite gun.<p>

As I mentioned, this is the last fic in this collection. This has been a wonderful (yet slightly stressful) 22-day journey, and I'm glad so many wonderful readers have followed me on it, especially mikafan17, Illucida, judyann, and antra.

Thanks!


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